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The young inventor looked down at the woman, his brow knitting together. Just how many times had she slept here in the past year? He'd barely known her a year, and just about every night she had spent in Paris she had slept here. Not that he could complain. He blushed, hand going across his mouth and cheeks. Right now, just how many people had seen her like this, so ... vulnerable. No, that didn't quite seem to be the right word. Highly charismatic and overly confident, vulnerable wasn't the word, but right now it was. Whatever her nightmares were, they had her grasping for her head.

He had found her last year, trying to steal his stuff. Well she had actually been successful in stealing his stuff; she just hadn't been so in escaping. He had been working into the night, and it had only been a few hours before dawn when she had come. He had been about to turn in for the night when he had heard the noise, coming from the upper floors. Grabbing the closest thing to hand, a poker from the fire side, he made his way upstairs, hugging the wall as he did so as to not make the floorboards creak. The noise he could hear came from his study, just the slight rustle of papers, occasionally stopping as if to listen out for him.

Technically he only had to wait outside for the person. The door was the only way in and out of the room. No window and certainly no fireplace. The last thing he wanted was for a fire to take place in there. Though he called the room a study, it was just a room in which he stored his documents. All of his work took place in his workshop, including where all the sheets where his current designs were. Most likely this person was after one of his older designs, something that hadn't worked too well in a previous attempt. Though he could easily have waited outside the room, he didn't like the idea of someone messing up the only room in this house that he kept tidy, and he certainly didn't want them taking anything.

The inventor made to open the door, but it was opened before him just as his hand reached for the handle. His iron eyes flicked up to around head height, then back down again as he realised the person was slightly shorter. Clad in midnight black, he would have had a hard time making out the figure in the darkened room. The thief was certainly a sight to look upon.

Even in the light he would have doubted if he could see any skin on the thief, completely clothed from head to foot. Only the eyes seemed to be exposed, and the skin around that had been painted black. Before he could try and take any more in a hand rammed out, trying to shove him out of the way, but he grasped at the wrist, gasping slightly as metal dug into his palm. Dropping the poker, he grabbed at the thief, flipping him onto the floor. Grabbing the poker, he was quickly back on top of the thief, holding the iron in both hands with the weight across the throat. Shifting his weight, he removed the poker, but used his hand to hold the thief's throat, now using his spare hand to search the thief. Beneath him the thief bucked and struggled, trying to escape. As pain ripped into his arm he saw the gauntlet that the thief had been wearing. A great silver thing, reaching up to his elbow, with pointed fingers, clawed like a birds talons. Deftly he removed it, throwing the thing just out of reach, before returning to his search, knowing that the thief had no chance of trying to reach for his own neck.

Quickly he patted the youth down, trying to find the pockets, not an easy task with the struggling body. With little degree of success he wondered at where the youth could be hiding the papers. Remembering the pickpockets down the market he wondered if he had somehow secured the items beneath his tunic. Shifting position slightly, he reached for the belt and unbuckled it, showing his hand up under the cloth, searching for parchment. As his hand grabbed at something he momentarily stalled. It felt like bandages. Could he be using bandages to secure the items to his chest? Shifting his hand he went for a better feel, coming up slightly confused when he felt the fleshy mound. Then blushed.

Tersely he lifted the tunic, dropping it again after the glance. As he looked down at her he gulped, wondering how he had managed to make the mistake. Even with an attempt to bind them, she certainly wasn't flat. Tentatively he put his fingers under the beak of the estranged mask she wore. Really, in this day and age, who went around wearing a bird mask? It wasn't as if this was Venice. Lifting the mask he then gulped, getting a full view of her eyes. There was a black stripe across her face, going straight across her eyes, even her eyelids had been painted, but beneath the black were piercing eyes. Brilliant blue stared into his iron grey ones, and he was daunted by it.
"Get off me you lummock," she snarled.

He was about to comply when he stopped, remembering that she was trying to steal from him.
"Like hell you thieving whore." She raised an eyebrow as if to ask if that was meant to be an insult.
"Look..." she stalled for the next word, one coming after a few seconds, "You oaf. Clearly you have a Master who pushes you around, making you wake up at this hour to make you prep his work."
"I've not been to bed yet." He then blushed, wondering how appropriate it was to say that whilst he had a woman beneath him.
"Is Asquith really worth all this trouble? He hasn't even bothered to wake up to help you. Let me go and I'll make it worth your while," she dug her leg up slightly at the last bit, emphasising just what she meant.
"He doesn't like his stuff being stolen."
"Seriously, when was the last time you got some," she softly laughed. God she looked pretty, and it was taking some effort to keep his mind from wandering. Whore hadn't been that great an insult to her; she knew exactly how to make men play into her hand, probably quite literally as well.
"That does sound tempting," he leant down, fingers tangling into her dark hair, his lips breathing into her ear, "But you see, there's a conflict of interest here. I'm Asquith."
"Fuck."

Sometime later he had her sat in his kitchen, chained to a chair. He didn't trust her to not be in his sight, having the feeling that she would disappear as soon as he took it away. Already he knew how she had got in, through an attic window, and he had dragged her around as he had locked it, securing the key on himself. At the moment she still didn't know where the main outside door was, which in attempt to escape would impede her.
"So who are you?" he rocked back on his own chair, picking up the mask from the table. She didn't answer, instead looking at the fire he had stoked. The mask in his hands was completely black, shaped like the head of some dark bird, of which he wasn't too sure.
"Are you meant to be a member of that thief gang, the Magpies?"
"Like hell," she instantly rebuked, "They couldn't even steal a tooth from a dead man's skull."
"You don't take highly to competitors."
"They're hardly competitors; they're annoying small fry that make my job harder."
"I'd hardly say that thieving was a real job."
"Well I'd say that being an inventor was hardly the right life choice."

The inventor looked at her, carefully calculating his next choice of words.
"So you're a mage."
"I got some magic." He could tell by her tone that her words had also been carefully picked. To say that there was a hatred between magic and the new technologies was an understatement, it was verging at the point of outright war. Despite having the greatest collection of magical tomes in the world, London had long since declared its allegiance to the new technologies; whilst it was hard to find a soul who hadn't heard of the vast armies that Russia was collecting in aid of the mages. Paris was a place in between; the new technologies have a foothold, but still being squashed beneath the heel of the mage's boot.
"So which faction are you?"
"Clockwork," he answered, "I have neither the space nor equipment to expand into steam."
"Basically you're a poor man, you don't have the money to do something better."
"Perhaps that is the case," he answered, softly smiling, "So who believes I have something worth stealing?"

She pondered his question, sharp blue eyes calculating an answer. He kept his gaze level, not betraying anything. He hardly ever got to talk to someone like this; it wasn't that he didn't have peers, it's just they didn't keep up with his rate of thinking. This game, she wanted escape whilst he wanted answers. As a thief, it was in her best interest not to disclose information about her clientele; as the captor, it was in his best interest not to let her leave until he got what he wanted. It certainly was interesting, especially since she had learnt that her standard set of feminine wiles were not going to work on him, well not that he was going to let on that they wouldn't. Despite being chained to a chair, she still looked as if she was in control; she didn't at all seem bothered or fazed by the fact she was a prisoner. Her glossy black hair tumbled down over her shoulders, and her eyes could pierce into any man's soul. She was beautiful, and she knew it.

"You're an interesting one Asquith, or may I call you Percival?"
"That's rather rude of you. You want to call me by my Christian name when I don't even know what to call you."
"If it will stop you from calling me a bleeding magpie, then I am Crow." At least Crow was better than thief or whore; and Crow explained the mask, though he had originally thought it a raven.
"So what did you intend to steal from me Crow?"
"Designs, ideas... divine inspiration," she laughed, "The old sod seems to have fallen by the wayside and wants something to bring him back up. London's become a cruel place, you're either all or nothing."
"And you play a game where people want you to steal others ideas. If they're not from the country then all the better. You're hardly going to go out of business any time soon."
"A secure job, as long as I don't get caught. Someone always wants something stealing, or I can steal for my own gain. You on the other hand, if the mages win this war, it's your kind that are going to get lynched, you have no place in their world."
"Just as a mage has no place in a world of technology," he replied.
"I'm a thief first, then a mage."

"How would you like a job?" he smiled, "After all, you seem to have no quarrel in working for an inventor."
"That depends, what would you have me do?" Eyes scathingly watched him.
"You need to return an idea to this master of yours, why not an entire invention?" Her eyes really scrutinised him, unsure of his motive. She did not say anything.
"This master of yours, I want you to deliver something to him. Make sure he puts it in the fire, and make sure you run."
"Why? Because he'll slap me from the dinky rubbish inside?"
"I doubt he'd be able to do that once the contraption is unlocked." She once again jingled the chains.
"Go on." He only smiled.

About a month later she crept back in through his attic window, just as he was tinkering with one of his inventions.
"What the hell was that?"
"Sorry, what?"
"You know what," she grabbed him by his shirt front, those eyes rattled.
"What were the damages?" he removed her from his front, keeping her wrists held tight.
"His house went up in flames, so did most of the street!"
"Well he should have known not to steal from people." Letting her go he turned, heading towards the stairs that led into the rest of his house.
"Do you want anything to drink?"
"Got any gin?" He turned, sandy eyebrow rising at her.
"What?" she brushed past him, walking down the stairs backwards so she still faced him, "I've been up all night and want a drink. Please tell me there's something alcoholic in this house, and let it not be grape juice."

Since then he had always kept a bottle of gin in the house. He never touched the stuff, it was always for her if she ever wanted it. She'd worked on and off for him for the last year now, and yet he felt barely closer to her. Right now she was curled up with hands wrapped about her head, in the midst of some nightmare that she would never tell him about.
"Crow."
"You love her don't you?"

He jumped away from the door, turning around. He steadied, grabbed the door handle and quietly shut the door.
"Orca," he murmured. The blonde girl looked up at him, those eyes not questioning him, but rather assessing him, evaluating his actions. This girl, Orca Williams, apparently she was Crow's friend.
"You do, don't you?"
"It's none of your business," he walked away.
"Nothing will come of it." He stopped, head dropping. Perhaps she really did know Crow.
"I know," he whispered, more as if to try and make himself realise than to tell the girl. There was always something distant about the thief, something she tried to hide so well, and only came out when she thought no one was looking. He knew it was something to do with her dreams, and the person she lost in them. He loved her, and it was breaking him to know that she was never moving on from the loss of her lover.

She woke with a start, clutching at the sheets, bathed in sweat. She turned, silently sobbing into the pillow. That dream, again and again, the only dream she had had in a long time. This sadness, the loss, she hated it, and yet she knew this was her only real emotion. Ever since she had become like this, all of her emotions had been dead, all that didn't involve memories of him. Despite seeing his face in her dreams she still could not remember his name.

"Why?" she mouthed into the pillow, the thin material grasped tight between her fingers. She could recall everything about him bar his name. That black hair that could never fall correctly, only ever being controlled when it was drenched. Those deep blue eyes that only ever saw her for who she was; they never expected more of her than she was capable of giving; they never once blamed her for the position she held and all the limitations it came with. He cared so deeply about her, always worried about the world's perception of her and not of himself. But he was five millennia dead; there was no way of him coming back.

"Why?" she looked up towards the door, "Why can't I love a man like him?" Percy was kind to her, he never looked at her so openly with scorn about what she did. She knew he bit his tongue about her actions to get everything she wanted, but he rarely said anything to her face. Only when he was truly angry about something she had done did he use it against her, and it really put her in her place, shaming her. He seemed to be a moral compass to her.
"He's good for me." But he wasn't the man she loved.

Orca sat on the roof, cupping a ball of flames. The streets of Paris were cold, but not as cold as her heart. She'd known Crow for so long, and Asquith for a few days. Yet she pitied the man so much, he was head over heels in love for her. That man, he didn't know the half of her, and yet he was prepared to accept everything about her. He looked on, knowing that she was in love with someone else, hiding his emotions away.
"You deserve someone better," she whispered on the frigid air, "You deserve someone capable of emotions." But love made fools of people, Asquith had fallen hard, and Crow... she didn't know the full story. Somewhere, there was a dead man that Crow had loved, and when he died, she had left all her emotions with him. She should have died a long time ago, it would have been better for her, because now it was as if she were a walking corpse. There was a difference between herself and Crow. Crow had remained in the world, whilst she had distanced herself from it. She shouldn't have, you couldn't be an immortal in a mortal world.

"So that's where you've been hiding." She looked up, seeing her friend. That fake smile was upon her lips, she knew there was no real emotion behind it, long devoid. There was no trace of the nightmares on her face, of the sobbing which had taken place not half an hour before.
"Percy is cooking some grub, you coming?"
"You shouldn't lead him on." Crow stopped, halting down the roof.
"I'm not," she steadily answered.
"You'll only end up hurting yourself," Orca passed her by, entering the Inventor's attic. Crow opened her mouth to make the rebuke, but stopped, turning away and sitting down.

She looked back at her friend, sitting alone on the roof. She was right, and that was why she wouldn't answer her back. Certainly she believed that Asquith would never do anything to intentionally harm Crow, but Crow would outlive Asquith by millennia. As an immortal, if you meddled in mortal affairs, you could only end up getting burnt. Perhaps she hadn't been right when she said Crow was emotionless, she still remembered what pain truly was. This place, it wasn't safe, so many people running after delusions, running after dreams that could never come true. Soon, in this city, many would die for their delusions, and she knew that Crow would be hurt badly if she allowed for hers to continue.

Description
The young inventor looked down at the woman, his brow knitting together. Just how many times had she slept here in the past year? He'd barely known her a year, and just about every night she had spent in Paris she had slept here. Not that he could complain. He blushed, hand going across his mouth and cheeks. Right now, just how many people had seen her like this, so ... vulnerable. No, that didn't quite seem to be the right word. Highly charismatic and overly confident, vulnerable wasn't the word, but right now it was. Whatever her nightmares were, they had her grasping for her head.

He had found her last year, trying to steal his stuff. Well she had actually been successful in stealing his stuff; she just hadn't been so in escaping. He had been working into the night, and it had only been a few hours before dawn when she had come. He had been about to turn in for the night when he had heard the noise, coming from the upper floors. Grabbing the closest thing to hand, a poker from the fire side, he made his way upstairs, hugging the wall as he did so as to not make the floorboards creak. The noise he could hear came from his study, just the slight rustle of papers, occasionally stopping as if to listen out for him.

Technically he only had to wait outside for the person. The door was the only way in and out of the room. No window and certainly no fireplace. The last thing he wanted was for a fire to take place in there. Though he called the room a study, it was just a room in which he stored his documents. All of his work took place in his workshop, including where all the sheets where his current designs were. Most likely this person was after one of his older designs, something that hadn't worked too well in a previous attempt. Though he could easily have waited outside the room, he didn't like the idea of someone messing up the only room in this house that he kept tidy, and he certainly didn't want them taking anything.

The inventor made to open the door, but it was opened before him just as his hand reached for the handle. His iron eyes flicked up to around head height, then back down again as he realised the person was slightly shorter. Clad in midnight black, he would have had a hard time making out the figure in the darkened room. The thief was certainly a sight to look upon.

Even in the light he would have doubted if he could see any skin on the thief, completely clothed from head to foot. Only the eyes seemed to be exposed, and the skin around that had been painted black. Before he could try and take any more in a hand rammed out, trying to shove him out of the way, but he grasped at the wrist, gasping slightly as metal dug into his palm. Dropping the poker, he grabbed at the thief, flipping him onto the floor. Grabbing the poker, he was quickly back on top of the thief, holding the iron in both hands with the weight across the throat. Shifting his weight, he removed the poker, but used his hand to hold the thief's throat, now using his spare hand to search the thief. Beneath him the thief bucked and struggled, trying to escape. As pain ripped into his arm he saw the gauntlet that the thief had been wearing. A great silver thing, reaching up to his elbow, with pointed fingers, clawed like a birds talons. Deftly he removed it, throwing the thing just out of reach, before returning to his search, knowing that the thief had no chance of trying to reach for his own neck.

Quickly he patted the youth down, trying to find the pockets, not an easy task with the struggling body. With little degree of success he wondered at where the youth could be hiding the papers. Remembering the pickpockets down the market he wondered if he had somehow secured the items beneath his tunic. Shifting position slightly, he reached for the belt and unbuckled it, showing his hand up under the cloth, searching for parchment. As his hand grabbed at something he momentarily stalled. It felt like bandages. Could he be using bandages to secure the items to his chest? Shifting his hand he went for a better feel, coming up slightly confused when he felt the fleshy mound. Then blushed.

Tersely he lifted the tunic, dropping it again after the glance. As he looked down at her he gulped, wondering how he had managed to make the mistake. Even with an attempt to bind them, she certainly wasn't flat. Tentatively he put his fingers under the beak of the estranged mask she wore. Really, in this day and age, who went around wearing a bird mask? It wasn't as if this was Venice. Lifting the mask he then gulped, getting a full view of her eyes. There was a black stripe across her face, going straight across her eyes, even her eyelids had been painted, but beneath the black were piercing eyes. Brilliant blue stared into his iron grey ones, and he was daunted by it.
"Get off me you lummock," she snarled.

He was about to comply when he stopped, remembering that she was trying to steal from him.
"Like hell you thieving whore." She raised an eyebrow as if to ask if that was meant to be an insult.
"Look..." she stalled for the next word, one coming after a few seconds, "You oaf. Clearly you have a Master who pushes you around, making you wake up at this hour to make you prep his work."
"I've not been to bed yet." He then blushed, wondering how appropriate it was to say that whilst he had a woman beneath him.
"Is Asquith really worth all this trouble? He hasn't even bothered to wake up to help you. Let me go and I'll make it worth your while," she dug her leg up slightly at the last bit, emphasising just what she meant.
"He doesn't like his stuff being stolen."
"Seriously, when was the last time you got some," she softly laughed. God she looked pretty, and it was taking some effort to keep his mind from wandering. Whore hadn't been that great an insult to her; she knew exactly how to make men play into her hand, probably quite literally as well.
"That does sound tempting," he leant down, fingers tangling into her dark hair, his lips breathing into her ear, "But you see, there's a conflict of interest here. I'm Asquith."
"Fuck."

Sometime later he had her sat in his kitchen, chained to a chair. He didn't trust her to not be in his sight, having the feeling that she would disappear as soon as he took it away. Already he knew how she had got in, through an attic window, and he had dragged her around as he had locked it, securing the key on himself. At the moment she still didn't know where the main outside door was, which in attempt to escape would impede her.
"So who are you?" he rocked back on his own chair, picking up the mask from the table. She didn't answer, instead looking at the fire he had stoked. The mask in his hands was completely black, shaped like the head of some dark bird, of which he wasn't too sure.
"Are you meant to be a member of that thief gang, the Magpies?"
"Like hell," she instantly rebuked, "They couldn't even steal a tooth from a dead man's skull."
"You don't take highly to competitors."
"They're hardly competitors; they're annoying small fry that make my job harder."
"I'd hardly say that thieving was a real job."
"Well I'd say that being an inventor was hardly the right life choice."

The inventor looked at her, carefully calculating his next choice of words.
"So you're a mage."
"I got some magic." He could tell by her tone that her words had also been carefully picked. To say that there was a hatred between magic and the new technologies was an understatement, it was verging at the point of outright war. Despite having the greatest collection of magical tomes in the world, London had long since declared its allegiance to the new technologies; whilst it was hard to find a soul who hadn't heard of the vast armies that Russia was collecting in aid of the mages. Paris was a place in between; the new technologies have a foothold, but still being squashed beneath the heel of the mage's boot.
"So which faction are you?"
"Clockwork," he answered, "I have neither the space nor equipment to expand into steam."
"Basically you're a poor man, you don't have the money to do something better."
"Perhaps that is the case," he answered, softly smiling, "So who believes I have something worth stealing?"

She pondered his question, sharp blue eyes calculating an answer. He kept his gaze level, not betraying anything. He hardly ever got to talk to someone like this; it wasn't that he didn't have peers, it's just they didn't keep up with his rate of thinking. This game, she wanted escape whilst he wanted answers. As a thief, it was in her best interest not to disclose information about her clientele; as the captor, it was in his best interest not to let her leave until he got what he wanted. It certainly was interesting, especially since she had learnt that her standard set of feminine wiles were not going to work on him, well not that he was going to let on that they wouldn't. Despite being chained to a chair, she still looked as if she was in control; she didn't at all seem bothered or fazed by the fact she was a prisoner. Her glossy black hair tumbled down over her shoulders, and her eyes could pierce into any man's soul. She was beautiful, and she knew it.

"You're an interesting one Asquith, or may I call you Percival?"
"That's rather rude of you. You want to call me by my Christian name when I don't even know what to call you."
"If it will stop you from calling me a bleeding magpie, then I am Crow." At least Crow was better than thief or whore; and Crow explained the mask, though he had originally thought it a raven.
"So what did you intend to steal from me Crow?"
"Designs, ideas... divine inspiration," she laughed, "The old sod seems to have fallen by the wayside and wants something to bring him back up. London's become a cruel place, you're either all or nothing."
"And you play a game where people want you to steal others ideas. If they're not from the country then all the better. You're hardly going to go out of business any time soon."
"A secure job, as long as I don't get caught. Someone always wants something stealing, or I can steal for my own gain. You on the other hand, if the mages win this war, it's your kind that are going to get lynched, you have no place in their world."
"Just as a mage has no place in a world of technology," he replied.
"I'm a thief first, then a mage."

"How would you like a job?" he smiled, "After all, you seem to have no quarrel in working for an inventor."
"That depends, what would you have me do?" Eyes scathingly watched him.
"You need to return an idea to this master of yours, why not an entire invention?" Her eyes really scrutinised him, unsure of his motive. She did not say anything.
"This master of yours, I want you to deliver something to him. Make sure he puts it in the fire, and make sure you run."
"Why? Because he'll slap me from the dinky rubbish inside?"
"I doubt he'd be able to do that once the contraption is unlocked." She once again jingled the chains.
"Go on." He only smiled.

About a month later she crept back in through his attic window, just as he was tinkering with one of his inventions.
"What the hell was that?"
"Sorry, what?"
"You know what," she grabbed him by his shirt front, those eyes rattled.
"What were the damages?" he removed her from his front, keeping her wrists held tight.
"His house went up in flames, so did most of the street!"
"Well he should have known not to steal from people." Letting her go he turned, heading towards the stairs that led into the rest of his house.
"Do you want anything to drink?"
"Got any gin?" He turned, sandy eyebrow rising at her.
"What?" she brushed past him, walking down the stairs backwards so she still faced him, "I've been up all night and want a drink. Please tell me there's something alcoholic in this house, and let it not be grape juice."

Since then he had always kept a bottle of gin in the house. He never touched the stuff, it was always for her if she ever wanted it. She'd worked on and off for him for the last year now, and yet he felt barely closer to her. Right now she was curled up with hands wrapped about her head, in the midst of some nightmare that she would never tell him about.
"Crow."
"You love her don't you?"

He jumped away from the door, turning around. He steadied, grabbed the door handle and quietly shut the door.
"Orca," he murmured. The blonde girl looked up at him, those eyes not questioning him, but rather assessing him, evaluating his actions. This girl, Orca Williams, apparently she was Crow's friend.
"You do, don't you?"
"It's none of your business," he walked away.
"Nothing will come of it." He stopped, head dropping. Perhaps she really did know Crow.
"I know," he whispered, more as if to try and make himself realise than to tell the girl. There was always something distant about the thief, something she tried to hide so well, and only came out when she thought no one was looking. He knew it was something to do with her dreams, and the person she lost in them. He loved her, and it was breaking him to know that she was never moving on from the loss of her lover.

She woke with a start, clutching at the sheets, bathed in sweat. She turned, silently sobbing into the pillow. That dream, again and again, the only dream she had had in a long time. This sadness, the loss, she hated it, and yet she knew this was her only real emotion. Ever since she had become like this, all of her emotions had been dead, all that didn't involve memories of him. Despite seeing his face in her dreams she still could not remember his name.

"Why?" she mouthed into the pillow, the thin material grasped tight between her fingers. She could recall everything about him bar his name. That black hair that could never fall correctly, only ever being controlled when it was drenched. Those deep blue eyes that only ever saw her for who she was; they never expected more of her than she was capable of giving; they never once blamed her for the position she held and all the limitations it came with. He cared so deeply about her, always worried about the world's perception of her and not of himself. But he was five millennia dead; there was no way of him coming back.

"Why?" she looked up towards the door, "Why can't I love a man like him?" Percy was kind to her, he never looked at her so openly with scorn about what she did. She knew he bit his tongue about her actions to get everything she wanted, but he rarely said anything to her face. Only when he was truly angry about something she had done did he use it against her, and it really put her in her place, shaming her. He seemed to be a moral compass to her.
"He's good for me." But he wasn't the man she loved.

Orca sat on the roof, cupping a ball of flames. The streets of Paris were cold, but not as cold as her heart. She'd known Crow for so long, and Asquith for a few days. Yet she pitied the man so much, he was head over heels in love for her. That man, he didn't know the half of her, and yet he was prepared to accept everything about her. He looked on, knowing that she was in love with someone else, hiding his emotions away.
"You deserve someone better," she whispered on the frigid air, "You deserve someone capable of emotions." But love made fools of people, Asquith had fallen hard, and Crow... she didn't know the full story. Somewhere, there was a dead man that Crow had loved, and when he died, she had left all her emotions with him. She should have died a long time ago, it would have been better for her, because now it was as if she were a walking corpse. There was a difference between herself and Crow. Crow had remained in the world, whilst she had distanced herself from it. She shouldn't have, you couldn't be an immortal in a mortal world.

"So that's where you've been hiding." She looked up, seeing her friend. That fake smile was upon her lips, she knew there was no real emotion behind it, long devoid. There was no trace of the nightmares on her face, of the sobbing which had taken place not half an hour before.
"Percy is cooking some grub, you coming?"
"You shouldn't lead him on." Crow stopped, halting down the roof.
"I'm not," she steadily answered.
"You'll only end up hurting yourself," Orca passed her by, entering the Inventor's attic. Crow opened her mouth to make the rebuke, but stopped, turning away and sitting down.

She looked back at her friend, sitting alone on the roof. She was right, and that was why she wouldn't answer her back. Certainly she believed that Asquith would never do anything to intentionally harm Crow, but Crow would outlive Asquith by millennia. As an immortal, if you meddled in mortal affairs, you could only end up getting burnt. Perhaps she hadn't been right when she said Crow was emotionless, she still remembered what pain truly was. This place, it wasn't safe, so many people running after delusions, running after dreams that could never come true. Soon, in this city, many would die for their delusions, and she knew that Crow would be hurt badly if she allowed for hers to continue.